


From the Vault: Declassified Affairs

by Orockthro



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Drabble Collection, During Canon, Gen, Post-Series, Pre-Series, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 18:18:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2661755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orockthro/pseuds/Orockthro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabble-length prompt fills from LJ and/or Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A White Picket Fence (Only Gets You So Far)

**Author's Note:**

> So it's not at all a secret that when I'm bored or stuck with whatever else I'm working on, I send up prompt flairs. I *love* writing prompt fills! Use this knowledge for whatever evil you desire. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Prompt (from bluemeanybeany):  
>  Also - and my parents swear this is true - in my hometown in the 1970s it became apparent that certain newspapers were having sections cut out of them. When it was looked into to see which newspapers were being damaged, they were the ones relating to nazi trials and what had been cut out of them was the photographs of the suspected nazi leadership. This led to a panic amongst the locals that there was secretly a Nazi living in the area who was trying to maintain his cover by ensuring there were no records in the library where someone could stumble across his true identity._

It starts innocently enough: a local high school journalism student asks the wrong questions (or the right questions, Napoleon still isn’t quite sure) and then, still blessed with the fervor imbued to youth, publishes them without thought in Valley View’s student newspaper.

UNCLE Section V and VI, afraid of stepping on the other’s toes, didn’t catch it until it had already gone into print, and by that point it became a mockery of clandestine operations to get the article censored. Had Waverly still been alive he would have fired the lot of them, the consequences of a dozen empty seats be damned. As it stands, Napoleon himself can do nothing either. It’s the downside of retirement.

“Did you hear about--”

Illya doesn’t even look up from his oatmeal, just shoves the folded newspaper across the table until it nudges his own plate of fried eggs.

Napoleon picks it up gingerly, sighs, and clears his throat before reading the headlining article of the local city paper out loud. “Student Newspaper Censored - Spies in Our Midst?”

“If you’re thinking that UNCLE didn’t see the trees for the jungle, then you’d be correct.”

“Forest. And how the hell did this happen?”

Illya shrugs, apparently content to eat his tasteless goop of a breakfast and let others deal with their organization's most recent gaffe. Good for his health, he says. As if, after all they’ve been through, a few bowls of oatmeal will make much of a difference.

“This was supposed to be easy compared to battling THRUSH every Wednesday. Buy a little house in a little town, go deep undercover as retired professors until we die of old age.”

Illya glowers.

“Until we die of boredom,” he amends. “It was that or get our minds wiped. We weren't supposed to have to worry about good samaritans, or bad ones, or any ones except for whom we play poker with.”

“Notice that unlike you I am not complaining. Read the rest of the article.”

Napoleon does so and laughs. “They think it’s the Andersons.”

“Would you not be suspicious of such a blatantly average couple?” If anything his partner’s dark humor has increased in his retirement, not that Napoleon is complaining. Keeps him on his toes far better than some crossword puzzle.

“Luckily that is one thing we cannot be called. Eat your damned porridge and let’s bring the Andersons a bottle of wine as a commiseration gift before the mob sets in. We spies have to stick together, after all.”


	2. From Russia with Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Prompt (from bluemeanybeany):_  
>  did you know that the bullet the finally killed Rasputin came from a gun type almost entirely exclusively used by the British secret service. Waverly would have been a young agent of 30 at the time, and I have a headcanon that the reason why he's so keen on Illya and Russian-involvement in Uncle is that he was involved with the British Secret Service's botched efforts to stop Russia imploding. Waverly feels on some level like it's a personal failing and that's his motivation for the Soviet-US co-operation plan - so he can at least make something about the situation right again.

Alexander Waverly looks at the dossier in front of him. It’s printed on heavy paper, but that hasn’t stopped the file from looking like it’s been through several wars. It’s entirely possible it has. The corners are torn, and the front cover holds a coffee stain that could have originated in any of a half dozen countries.

“Alex, are you sure about this?”

Waverly tightens his lips around the pipe in his mouth. “Certainly.” He takes one final puff before reluctantly pulling it from his mouth. “Have you anything constructive to say, or are you merely going to gape like a fish at the thought? I have little time for the latter, Harry.”

“It’s just, you don’t have to do this, you know. It won’t change the past. God knows you’re still beating yourself up over it.”

He snaps the dossier shut, the image of a young Captain Kuryakin disappearing behind the beige cover. “It’s not the past that concerns me. The USSR is a force that we need to utilize, not marginalize.”

“Well I certainly don’t want any part of your little pet Soviet project, but if--”

Harry Beldon stops mid sentence as Waverly slides the papers towards him. “Shortsighted as ever. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. You only need take Kuryakin for two years. After that send him to New York headquarters.”

Harry scowles. “And why would I do such a thing. Surely, Alex, you can’t expect me to take in one of your strays for nothing. You know me better than that.”

Waverly returns the pipe to his mouth and puffs. “I’ve heard young Mr. Henley is gunning for Number One of Section One in the London office.”

Harry’s hands still from where they’d been dancing impatiently over the stained file. “Truly, Alex? You’d go to such lengths?”

“The world is changing, Harry. We do what we must to keep it in one piece.”

“Fine.” The file gets swept up off the table and tucked under Harry’s arm. “Two years. After that he, and the rest of the Russians for that matter, are your problem.”

“Always a pleasure, Harry.”

A grunt is his only response. Waverly smiles around his pipe. Perhaps there’s hope this time around after all.


	3. CaN yOU HeAR mE?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Prompt (from avery11 who is a sneaky bastard and knows my heart burned for POI for a long while there lol):  
>  Illya (or Napoleon) receives a phone call from THRUSH's Ultimate Computer._

He’s pinned; there’s a sniper on the roof and four hot-shots with flamethrowers between him and his getaway car.   
  
Hissing, he pulls out his communicator. Napoleon will not let him live this one down. “Open channel--”  
  
There’s a squelching noise, and Illya is forced to drop the communicator pen in the muck of the alley to protect his ears. Fantastic. His humiliating rescue is now postponed due to a dud piece of equipment. He gingerly picks the pen up again. “Open--”  
  
“Hell-o.”  
  
Illya blinks. “Who is this?” He hadn’t opened up a channel yet, and it certainly isn’t the voice he’s come to expect from the various women in the Operator booth. In fact, if he was pressed to, he’d say this voice was more robotic than human.  
  
“I aM tHe THRUSH uLTimAte CompUTER. YoU MAy call mE TUCKER.”  
  
Illya lays the communicator pen down in one of the several unpleasant puddles and aims his weapon at it.   
  
“YoU caN ESCAPE.”  
  
He flicks his finger to hover over the trigger. Unfortunately, his curiosity has often gotten the best of him, and it appears once again Napoleon will have something to mock him about, provided he survives the night. “Don’t you mean, “cannot” escape?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Illya waits a beat, but whoever is on the other end doesn’t elaborate. He licks his lips and looks up. The shadow of the sniper falls across the fire escape he’s ducked under, casting prison bar shapes every which way as he moves.   
  
“Then please, elaborate.” He feels a fool, even as he says it, but he doesn’t have many options. Even if it’s a trap, it’s a trap he’ll likely survive setting off, which is not something he can say about his current situation. He switches his grip on his weapon to one-handed and scoops the communicator up out of the muck.   
  
“TwENTy metERs LeFT. South eiGHT MetERs.”  
  
Cautiously, Illya darts his head left and gets a look at a narrow rout that might, just possibly, not result in him becoming swiss cheese.   
  
“Why are you doing this?”  
  
“I aM BORED,” the voice says, somehow modulating the robotic whine to sound like that of a child.   
  
Illya shrugs. He, too, has been struck by the sort of interminable boredom that has resulted in less than logical decisions. The fact that the aid appears to be coming from a computer in THRUSH’s employ seems besides the point, although he’s not sure Mr. Waverly will agree when it comes time to write his report.  
  
“Thank you, Tucker,” he says, and then turns the communicator off, lays it back on the ground, and shoots it to smithereens.  
  
Of course, it pays to be prudent. He eyes the opening to the left and, with a silent hope Napoleon won’t have to put ‘killed by robot’ on his gravestone, he runs.


	4. Sticks and Stones (and Blood and Bones)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Prompt (from avirra):  
>  Hmm - how about Napoleon getting called in to identify his partner's body? Face is right but something else strikes a wrong note._

The THRUSH agent holds him by the back of the neck, shoves him forward into the small, dark room, and says, “Your partner isn’t coming, Mr. Solo. We killed him four hours ago. See for yourself.”  
  
There’s blood everywhere, and a blond figure face down in the middle of it. He doesn’t even register the THRUSH agent letting go of him.   
  
“Illya!”  
  
He drops to his knees immediately and grasps a shoulder, only to find it lifeless. Shaking, he presses a hand to feel for a pulse, knowing what he won’t find as soon as his finger touches the cold, rigid skin.   
  
A metal door clangs shut behind him, and Solo is alone in the room with it. The body. The body that cannot possibly be his partner, because his partner is safe on the outside, safe in a surveillance van and warm and fed and wondering why Solo is late, and not laying face down on bitterly cold cement. Not bled out and left to die alone.   
  
Solo gulps a lungful of bitter air, putrid with blood, and tries to assess the situation calmly. Logically. Tries to approach it like Illya would. He has to close his eyes and regain control of himself at the thought, nearly retching.  
  
The body is a mess, but the hair is recognizable, even in the low light. So are the clothes, down to the faded patches on the elbows that drive Napoleon mad. Illya refuses to replace the shirt. Refused. Refuses. He runs fingers down the shoe laces, across the belt buckle, under the cuffs, until finally Napoleon is out of excuses. He swallows, touches a hand to the cold skin of the neck, and rolls the body onto its back.   
  
He does retch this time. It’s Illya. It has to be. The line of the brow, the few darker hairs at his temples that have started to crop up with age, the set of the lip and jaw. It’s all Illya. He wipes some of the blood away from his face and closes his milky eyes; he can’t stand the thought of leaving him this defiled.   
  
“Oh god. Illya...”  
  
Any of them can die, it’s part of the job. But somehow Napoleon never thought it would be Illya. At least not first. Kuryakin is such a self sufficient agent it seems incomprehensible. And yet here he is, Illya dead in his arms.   
  
He drops his head to the dead man’s chest in a silent apology. Knelt over him, blood from the wounds that long stopped bleeding seeping into his scalp as his forehead presses against the unmoving chest, Napoleon freezes. He smiles.  
  
“Goodbye, tovarich,” he says to the body that is absolutely not his partner, and kisses it on both cheeks. He leaves it behind with no regrets.  
  
When he does escape, covered in a dead man’s gore, Illya meets him outside the compound, worry spelled across his face before he even makes it to the van.  
  
“Where are you injured?”  
  
“The blood's not mine. It’s yours.”   
  
Illya blinks and reaches out to feel Napoleon’s head for lumps so quickly he nearly jumps out of his skin as deft fingers feel behind his ears and hairline. “I’m not concussed! They put a ringer in the cell with me, a dead man.”   
  
“Huh,” his partner says, appeased, but not entirely judging from the way he makes Napoleon strip out of the blood soaked clothes and change into the spare set of coveralls that lives under the van passenger seat. He’s not ignorant of the way Illya’s eyes look him over for injuries while he does so, and he’s probably not very subtle in his own need to check on his partner either. His hand catches Illya’s as he hands him a wool cap to ward off the cold.   
  
Illya understands. “I’m fine.” He lets Napoleon keep a hand on him for a minute before shrugging him off. “How did you tell the straw man wasn’t me?”  
  
“Ringer, not straw man. And you, my skinny friend, are pigeon chested.” 


End file.
